


#3 Society Row

by SoVeryAverageMe



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ouran High School Host Club, Baking, Bitty's Pies are Powerful, Bullying, Caitlin & Bitty are Bros, Cameos from everyone, Check Please Big Bang 2016, Crack Treated Seriously, Friendship, Gen, References to Ouran High School Host Club, Swearing, brief panic attack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-06
Updated: 2016-11-06
Packaged: 2018-08-28 19:28:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8460157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SoVeryAverageMe/pseuds/SoVeryAverageMe
Summary: Samwell University is home to the kids of the rich, famous, and powerful. Samwell is a hierarchy where the elite rule, and scholarship students, like Eric Bittle, struggle to survive. If he can remain invisible for the next four years he can graduate with one of the most coveted diplomas in the world, if not… well he’s about to find out when an unfortunate run in with the Samwell Men’s Host Club changes his life forever.(Alternatively: The origin story of a self-indulgent OMGCP x OHSHC AU, because every fandom needs at least one Ouran AU).





	

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [Check, Please! Big Bang 2016.](http://checkplease-bb.livejournal.com/)
> 
> Accompanying art by the absolutely wonderful [bittleobsessed](http://bittleobsessed.tumblr.com/), which can be found [here!](http://bittleobsessed.tumblr.com/post/152800619148/my-accompanying-artwork-for-3-society-row-by-the)

To say Eric Bittle was not excited to return to school after winter break was an understatement. Samwell University was the scourge of his existence. It ruined lives, took no prisoners, and never, ever let anyone out of it’s web once spun.

* * *

Three months ago he had been elated to be starting at Samwell. It was one of the most prestigious universities on the East Coast, always ranking high on the “Best Universities in the World” lists published by every media outlet ever.

He had received a full scholarship to the school with the stipulation of doing at least 15 hours of work study a week. He was even more excited to find out his work study position would be working in the kitchens under the head pastry chef.

That should have been his first warning – what school has the money to have a head pastry chef? Instead, Eric’s head had been filled with images of cakes and pies and the opportunity to learn under the tutelage of a professional in a state of the art kitchen. He was doomed.

Eric Bittle walks onto campus on his first day dreaming of ivy-covered walls, intellectual conversations, and golden brown pie crusts… these dreams are crushed before he even makes it to his first class.

As he walks across campus he feels as if all eyes are upon him. He dismisses the feeling as a product of nervousness, but he can’t help but hear the murmurs of whispered conversation that strike up every time he passes a group of students. He’s so caught up in his thoughts that he loses track of where he’s going. He’s wandered away from the river that cuts through the middle of campus and has ended up walking down a pathway that cuts between buildings.

It’s then that he realizes that every building on Samwell’s campus looks exactly the same and he is utterly and hopelessly lost.

He approaches a group of young women in order to ask for directions, but when he tries to call out to them, none of them even acknowledge his existence. He figures that they must be in a hurry to get to their classes, or were upperclassmen that didn’t want to be bothered by a naïve freshman… until it happens again… and again.  

The Quad is starting to empty as most students have found their way to their respective classes. He decides to take a chance on two boys idly making their way down the path. 

“Excuse me,” Eric smiles awkwardly, “Do you think you could give me directions. I’m a little lost.”

The boys turn to face Eric. Their gazes rake over his body from his shoes to his messy blond hair. He tries not to fidget under the scrutiny of their gazes. He feels like he’s a doll being judged by a five year-old (and Eric’s experience as a summer camp counselor told him that five-year olds were vicious). A smirk dawns on their faces.

“And why should we help the poor, little, scholarship kid?” One of the boys taunts, while the other hides a snicker behind his hand. “It’s not like you’ll last long anyway.” They purposely bump his shoulder on the way past, walking away as if they had never stopped in the first place.

Eric struggled to hold it together. The Quad was surrounded by beautiful, ivy-clad, brick buildings and the sun was peaking through the clouds just enough to turn the morning fog into a golden haze. It was the picture perfect photograph of an elite university. Eric knew that thousands of kids would have killed for his spot at Samwell.

Instead, he was lost, alone, and hundreds of miles away from home.

He sits alone at one of the benches lining the pathways and silently watches the stragglers rush to class. For a brief moment he thinks about calling his mom. Telling her that this was the worse choice in his life. That he would rather, unbelievably, be back in Georgia.

Then… then he thinks about how proud she looked when she was dropping him off at his dorm. How she bragged to all her girlfriends about the prestigious university her son had gotten into, and how she had had tears in her eyes when she finally had to say goodbye. His fingers hovered over the call button… but he can’t do that to her.

He curled his hands around his head, using them to muffle a failed attempt at a silent scream.

What was he going to do?

“Umm…” Eric jumps at the voice. He uncovers his hands from his face and looks up to see a tall brunette girl carrying a gym bag staring at him. Her eyes are kind when she asks, “Are you okay?”

“No. Not really.” She moves to sit down next to him on the bench.

“You must be one of the new academic scholarship students.”

“That obvious, huh?”

She laughs, “You haven’t started talking about how your clothes are designer, straight off the runway from Milan, your ski trip to your parents’ cabin in Aspen, or how close you are with some big name celebrity. Not to mention that you’re actually talking to me.”

“For your information, I got my clothes at the mall, spent my summer back home making jam with my family, and the most famous person I know is the 2013 Peach Princess of the Georgia State Fair.” Eric stops and furrows his eyebrows, “but… why would talking to you make me a scholarship student?”

The girl sticks her hand out, “Caitlin Farmer. I’m here on a volleyball scholarship.”

Eric shakes her hand in return, “Eric Bittle. And well… I guess you know the rest.” The girl, Caitlin, just hums in return. “I do have one question. Some boys earlier were saying that I won’t last long. What does that mean?”

“Don’t let them get to you. Samwell just has a nasty habit of scaring away scholarship students who can’t take its archaic hierarchy.” She lowers her voice to a whisper, “Don’t let the Elites know that I said that.” She continues on has if she didn’t just whisper something entirely ominous into his ear, “Anyway, just keep your head down, don’t make too much noise, and you’ll survive.”

“That doesn’t sound like too much fun,” Eric replies meekly.

Caitlin raises a pointed eyebrow, “A Samwell degree will take you anywhere you want in the world. For those of us at the bottom of the food chain it’s about getting out of here alive.”

“I thought Samwell was supposed to be some prestigious university?” Everyone had told him that getting into Samwell was a dream come true, a place that he could really grow and find himself.

“It’s prestigious because anyone who’s anyone sends their kids here,” Caitlin lifts her hand and starts making check marks in the air, “Celebrities. Check. Tech moguls. Check. Billionaires. Check.”

Caitlin places her hands firmly on Eric’s shoulders, “I hate to admit it, but our classmates will probably be some of the most powerful people in the world after they graduate. To survive Samwell you need to remember one thing. Are you listening to me?”

Eric stutters out an affirmative, in awe of this girl who is laying out their situation so plainly. She smiles, “The golden rule. The idea that Samwell is founded on,” she pauses to make sure Eric is still paying attention before continuing, “Pedigree, wealth, and then everything else.”

She smiles as if she didn’t just shatter everything he had hoped to gain from these next four years. He wants to scream, but instead he returns her smile with a fake one and says, “Thanks for the advice, do you think you could give me some directions?”

“Of course. Where are you headed?” Eric explains, all the while her blunt explanation of Samwell ringing through his head. He manages to catch the tail end of her directions, “Just follow Faber all the way around and it should put you right in front of the South entrance of the building.”

He picks up his things and turns to walk away with a mumbled, “Thanks.”

She calls out to him as he’s walking away, “If it’s any consolation, I think you’ll be one of the ones that make it.” He waves his hand in acknowledgment before continuing on his way to class.

He slips into his first class of the day unnoticed, even with the class mostly barren. It looks like more than half the students didn’t even care to show up, and the half that did looked bored out of their minds.

He goes through his classes robotically, still thinking about what Caitlin told him this morning. He tries to follow her advice: keeps quiet, sits in the middle of lecture halls so not to draw attention to himself, and doesn’t try to start a conversation with anyone. He can’t believe that it could be as bad as she said.

He would learn that it was much, much worse.

It’s in his last class of the day, an introductory computer science lecture, that he gets his first taste of the Samwell student… the real Samwell student, not the happy, smiling ones on the pamphlets that he had spent the entire summer looking through. The professor is in the middle of explaining the course syllabus when it happens:

A tall blonde girl stands up, gathers her stuff into her designer handbag, and shuffles her way to the aisle of the lecture hall. On her way to the door she taps a girl on the shoulder and quietly asks her something. The girl then proceeds to gather her stuff too. Eric can see it happening all over the room. Students packing up their belongings into their designer backpacks (and before today he didn’t even know that they made designer backpacks), and standing up to leave.

The blonde girl that instigated this all continues on her way as if this was an everyday occurrence. Her friends, or at least Eric assumed they were her friends, followed close behind her. Eric could hear murmurs of various conversations of what students were going to do with their free time – malls, beaches, and he thought he overheard someone say something about a private jet and a quick trip to the Mediterranean.

Within five minutes the entire lecture hall was empty except for himself and a redhead that was sitting in the front row. From his seat, Eric could see the red head sigh, shake his head, and then start to gather his things. He grabbed a printed syllabus from the front table before leaving himself. Eric was now the only person in the lecture hall, while the professor continued to drone on and on, as if his entire class didn’t just get up and leave.

He was in shock. There was nobody in class and the professor didn’t do anything to stop them. It was at this moment that he realized that the golden rule of Samwell didn’t just apply to students, but to the professors too. It probably applied to everyone on school grounds, sucking any living soul into an alternate reality that played by Samwell’s rules and Samwell’s rules only.

Eric dropped off his stuff off at his dorm before going to his work study position. He still held a small piece of hope that this would be his opportunity to shine. That he could survive the hellish school day by retreating to the kitchens of Samwell.

He was so very, very wrong.

He arrived at the kitchens only to be berated for being late, which was ridiculous considering he was almost fifteen minutes early. He held his tongue, afraid of speaking up and was then told to hurry up, put on an apron, and then guided to an industrial sink.

His work study position under the tutelage of a professional pastry chef turned out to be dish washing and dish washing and more dish washing.

Eric had thought that he could work up the ranks and someday be allowed to actually... well at least touch the food, so he did his work dutifully. Week after week he stood at the sink washing dishes only to reprimanded when one dish wasn’t _quite_ clean enough. He lost all hope when after two months of dishwashing, the pastry chef brought in an apprentice who never failed to remind him that she was the daughter of a world famous chocolatier.

The Samwell golden rule had struck again, and nobody in that kitchen had any intention of letting Eric touch anything that wasn’t a dirty dish.

This was how Eric spent the first three months at Samwell.

He struggled through the coursework in his classes with professors who could not care less if their students showed up, tried to remain invisible at work, and spent the rest of his time doing homework or if he was lucky, sleeping.

He hadn’t baked a single pie in the first three months.

The only bright spots were when he and Caitlin texted making fun of their elite classmates. They didn’t get to see each other much, work keeping Eric busy, while Caitlin had grueling practices with the volleyball team (she often complained that the Elites didn’t even have to show up to practice to be regulars, while she had to work her ass off to retain her scholarship).  

He had never been so excited to go home. Winter break was a godsend, freeing him of the clutches of Samwell and bringing him back into the real world.

He almost told his family how miserable he was at Samwell, but when he saw how proud they were… he couldn’t. He lied and talked about all his friends… and if his only friend was Caitlin, well… they didn’t need to know. Caitlin was right, if he could make it through four years at Samwell, he would be set for life. He just needed to remain invisible. 

Too bad that life had other plans for him.

* * *

It’s the first Friday of the new year. Eric’s almost done with his late night shift and is ready to go sleep until the early afternoon. All in all, it’s been a pretty good week. He managed to keep his head down in classes and hasn’t been yelled at for not cleaning the dishes well enough. He was even able to meet up with Caitlin for lunch on Wednesday.

He’s about to clock out when he hears his boss call his name. “Bittle. You can’t leave yet. I have a job for you.”

Eric stops and turns to face his boss. He takes a deep breath, before trying to square up his face into a neutral expression. “I’m sorry boss, but my shift’s already ended. I work the afternoon shift tomorrow. I can do whatever you need me to do then.”

His boss’ face contorts in frustration, “It can’t wait until tomorrow and you’re the last one here.” Eric thinks that he sees something akin to desperation cross his boss’ face. “You can have the day off tomorrow if you run this errand for me.” Definitely desperation.

Eric remembers that the adults are in the same boat as he is: trapped in the black hole that is Samwell, surrounded by students that have more power and wealth than any “commoner” can imagine. At least they were Eric’s peers, the adults at Samwell had to practically prostrate themselves to those that were decades younger.

He sighs and then relents, “What is it?”

He sees relief overtake his boss’ face, “We had a last minute order for pecan pies. I need you deliver them.” Eric’s confused, they worked in the school kitchens. They didn’t take orders and certainly didn’t make deliveries, but his boss was too busy stacking five boxes of pie into his arms to answer his questions. He continues while guiding him to the door, “You need to deliver them to the Haus and then wait until they’re finished so you can bring back the pie pans. You can just wait until your shift on Monday to bring them back.” Eric’s unceremoniously shoved out of the door and outside. His boss shuts the door behind him before he can get a word in edgewise.

Eric stands under the streetlight that illuminates the path. The stack of pie so high that he can hardly see over it. Who in the world orders _five_ pecan pies to be delivered at midnight, and why didn’t his boss tell him where to deliver them. He tries to think back to what his boss told him in the flurry of instructions. He mentioned something about... the house? What house? He thinks about going to knock on the kitchen door, but sees that the lights have already been shut off. His boss had already gone home for the night, while Eric was stuck with an armful of pie and a vague destination.

He probably could foist the pie off to some unsuspecting student. They might be elites, but they still like to eat, right? He sighs. The desperation on his boss's’ face meant that this pie delivery was important… or more likely was _for_ someone important. At any other school that clue could probably help him figure out where to go, but at Samwell almost every student could be classified as “important.”

Eric starts idly walking in a direction. Maybe he can find someone who can lead him to this… house. It’s a Friday night so some students are still milling about campus. Many of them have left for the weekend to exotic destinations or to go home to their family mansions (or as one boy in his psychology class liked to brag: his parents’ “fully restored English castle”).  

He walks until he sees two boys coming his direction that don’t look too drunk, unlike the last couple that passed. He tries to quickly walk over to them, but is forced to slow down by the sliding of the pies in his arms.

“Excuse me,” Eric pauses when he sees that he’s gotten their attention, “Do you think that you could give me some directions. I have some ah…,” he sort of lifts the pies awkwardly in his arms to bring attention to them, “pies to deliver.”

The boys look and each other and then one of them give Eric a sly smirk, “I don’t know if we can help with directions, but we can certainly take those pies off your hands, can’t we Chad?”

“Why, that’s a wonderful idea Chad. I have a certain hankering for a late night snack,” the other boy adds. The two look at Eric with predatory grins. Eric swallows nervously, the pies getting heavier in his hands. He should have just texted Caitlin or something, why would he think that any other Samwell student would be remotely helpful?

“Actually—” Eric begins, he swallows and then starts again, “These… um… they’re to be delivered to the um… House?” A look of shock crosses their faces.

“The Haus? These pies are for The Haus?” Eric just nods in response. He doesn’t understand how the House could cause such a big difference in their behavior. Are the people living there really that scary?

“Chad. Dude, we cannot steal from the Haus. It’s the Haus,” the other Chad says.

“I know Chad. Lardo would like… kick our asses like it was nothing, and no one’s ever survived getting on the wrong side of the Knight family.” Eric stands corrected. The people at the House are terrifying.

He clears his throat to stop their rambling, he interrupts one of the Chads who’s spouting nonsense about... ransom? He just files that into the back of his mind for later, and tries to ignore the fact that he’s evidently supposed to deliver pecan pie to what is the equivalent of the Samwell mafia. “Umm… So directions. It sounds like I really don’t want to make these House guys mad.”  

The Chads rattle off some directions and spin him around. He’d been heading in the wrong direction the entire time. They pat him on the back and send him off with a “Good luck man, you’re going to need it.” And suddenly it feels more like Eric’s heading off to war rather than some late night pie delivery. Just what had Eric gotten himself into?

He follows the directions that the Chads gave him. They lead him farther and farther away from the center of campus. The street lamps becoming further and further apart, until he gets to a solitary road of houses.

For a brief moment, staring down a sparsely lit road in the middle of the night with arms full of pie, he thinks that this is how he’s going to die. He shakes those thoughts out of his head and instead tries to remember what the Chads told him about how to recognize the House.

In any other school, Eric can imagine these houses lit up on a Friday night. Frat parties and the drunken escapades of college students. Instead, the Chads told him that this was Society Row. Some of the houses were home to the most elite students Samwell could offer, while others were meeting places for secret societies that were more than a century old. These people would rule the world someday. Eric couldn’t tell how much of the Chads’ story was an exaggeration, but knowing Samwell it could very well be true.

Eric stops in front of what he thinks is the House. There’s a sofa in the front yard that the Chads had said was a replica of one in the Palace of Versailles. Why anyone would need a sofa in their front yard was beyond Eric, but he had found out over the last few months that rich kids were weird… like really weird.

Eric makes his way up the path to the door and attempts to shift the balance of the pies in his arms enough to be able to knock on the door. He gives up after several failed attempts and decides to just gently kick the door instead, he really hopes the door isn’t also a replica from Versailles.

A few seconds later the door bursts open and Eric is faced with a tall mustachioed man with flowing brown hair. He’s also shirtless. And pantsless.

In fact, he’s only wearing a pair of American flag boxers. Eric thinks for the third time tonight that this is how he’s going to die.

“Um… You ordered pie?” Eric holds up the pie as if it’s a peace offering.

The mostly naked man turns around and shouts into the house, “Yo fuckers, the pie is finally here. Get your asses down here if you want any.” The man looks back at Eric and he can feel himself shrink under his gaze. “Don’t just stand there. Come in. Come in.” Eric gets waved into the House and wonders idly if he’ll ever be allowed out.

The man points to the kitchen counter and when he sets the pies down, Eric gets his first proper look at the House. Quite frankly… it kind of mess. There are leftover food scraps everywhere, it looks like someone was trying to create a blanket fort in front of the television, and there was an overwhelming odor of beer and sriracha.

“Sorry about the mess. It’s usually just us on weekends, so we don’t really keep up on appearances,” the man says with a small smile. Eric hears a bunch of people come tumbling down the stairs. Two men, thankfully fully clothed, run into the kitchen.

“We didn’t miss the pie did we?” asks the shorter of the two (not like it matters, because Eric observes that they both must be at least six feet tall).

“Nah bros. Get it while it’s hot.” Eric doesn’t correct the mustachioed man to tell him that he’d been hauling the pies around campus for almost an hour and that they had long gone cold. The two boys don’t seem to care as they each pick up a pie before thundering back up the stairs.

“Um… I’m going to need the pie tins back once they’re done,” Eric tries to explain to the man.

“Don’t worry little bro,” the man says while ruffling Eric’s hair and picking up one of the pies for himself. Eric shifts, uncomfortable, while the man continues, “I’ll just swing by the attic after Jack and I finish ours. I’ll grab the empty tin from Lardo’s room too.”

Eric looks at the pile of pies and realizes that there’s only one left. Someone must have snuck in and grabbed one while he wasn’t looking, probably the terrifying Lardo person that man and the Chads were talking about. Eric sighs again and takes a seat in the kitchen.

It looks like he’s going to be here a while.

He takes out his phone to text Caitlin when two boys walk into the kitchen. One is mysteriously wearing a red baseball cap… indoors… in the middle of the night.

Eric doesn’t think he’ll ever get over the weird habits of these Samwell kids.

 _Have you ever heard of the House?_ Eric texts Caitlin. He looks up to see that the boys have found plates and knife to split the pie. One of them places a piece on a plate and holds it up to him.

“Do you want some?”

“Are you sure?” Eric remembers back to the conversation he had with the Chads that felt like a lifetime ago. He certainly doesn’t want to end up their bad side.

“Yeah. As long as we leave some for Johnson it’ll be fine.” Eric accepts the pie and picks at it with a fork while waiting for Caitlin’s reply. The other two boys busy themselves by packing up the pie and putting it into the fridge. His phone dings a couple seconds later.

_the HAUS? wtf. why are you asking about the haus?_

_Umm… im there._

_where?_

_the haus._

Eric’s phone starts ringing and he looks to see that it’s an incoming call from Caitlin. The other boys have taken their pie into the other room, and there’s nobody else to be seen. He deems it safe enough to answer the phone call.

“Hi Caitlin. Shouldn’t you be asleep. Don’t you have an early morning practice tomorrow?” Eric greets her false cheer coloring his voice.

“Don’t you ‘Hi Caitlin’ me Eric Bittle. What in the world are you doing at the Haus?”

“They… um… they ordered some late night pie.” Eric shrugs even though he knows she can’t see it. He’s not that clear on the series of events that led him to be at what is evidently the most terrifying place on campus in the middle of the night.

“They ordered… oh god Eric, get out of there before they swallow you whole.” Through the overwhelming agitation in her voice, Eric can here some genuine concern.

“I sort of told my boss I’d wait to get the pie pans back.”

“Leave the pans. Save yourself.” Eric feels that he’s once again become a soldier in a war that he doesn’t understand.

“I’m still not sure what the big deal is about this whole Haus thing Cait.” Eric hears her sigh on the other side of the line. He’s sure that if they were face to face that Caitlin would be giving him the look she always gives him when she has to teach him about the mysterious unspoken laws that rule Samwell.

“Remember what I said about pedigree and wealth?” Eric hums an affirmative, “Well the Haus is home to the SMH, and the SMH is filled with those who have both in spades.”

“Isn’t that everyone at Samwell?”

“The Haus makes the rest of Samwell look like… well… look like you and me. We joke a lot about how our classmates are going to rule the world someday. The people at the Haus already do. They have the economic and social power to ruin… well pretty much anyone. They’re untouchable, even by Samwell standards.”

Eric sighs (sometimes he wonders if he sighed this much before entering Samwell). Great. Just great, he thinks. The Haus wasn’t so much the Samwell version of mafia, but the Samwell version of the freaking Roman Empire. Utterly and totally absolute.

“Thanks for info Cait. I’ll get out here when I can… and hopefully our lives will never intersect again.”

“Just be careful E. Those guys are not to be messed with.”

“I know. Get some sleep.” Eric hangs up the phone after a quick goodbye from Caitlin. He just wants to get these pie tins and get back to his dorm in one piece. Even his slightly lumpy dorm bed sounds like paradise right about now. He has a few bites of pie before the two boys from earlier return. Baseball Cap puts both their dishes in the sink and turns to Eric.

“Why don’t you head home now and get some sleep. We’re about to head out too.” Eric’s surprised. He had thought that the two lived at the Haus with the rest of the… eclectic students.

“I can’t. I have to collect the pie tins.”

Both boys look at each other and try to smother laughs. “That’s a lost cause tonight. They’ve probably all  passed out by now face first into the pans,” says Non-Baseball Cap.

“Cut your luck and just come back tomorrow.” Eric suppresses the urge to bang his head against the counter top. He never wants to come back here again. One visit to the Haus was emotionally scarring for the entirety of his poor, commoner life.

Instead, the call of sleep is too great. It’s past 1AM and he just wants to get out of Society Row.  He relents and lets the two lead him out of the Haus. He makes his way back to his dorm and someone survives the journey home. He manages to pull off his shoes  and doesn’t even try to get dressed in his pajamas. He falls face first into the bed and promptly passes out. He’s thankful that he has the day off, although he somehow thinks he got the worst end of the deal considering he has to venture back to the bowels of Society Row tomorrow.

* * *

Eric wakes up the next morning feeling sore and gross in his day-old clothes. His phone is lit up, and shows that he has five missed messages from Caitlin, all of them asking if he made it home okay. He texts her that he’s fine and wishes her luck with practice.

He groans while getting up and looks to see that it’s not even 8AM. He curses the world that made him an early riser and then decides to fuck it and go back to sleep. He wakes up three hours later feeling no less sore, but slightly more refreshed.

He finally pulls himself out of bed, takes a shower, and pulls on some new clothes. He tries to ignore the fact that he has to go back to the Haus today and instead throws himself into doing some of his homework. He never thought that he would be thankful for calculus.

At some point he’ll have to leave his room and get food, but he doesn’t know what will happen if he leaves the safety of his dorm room. He compromises with himself and decides that once he finally caves and gets food, he’ll go to the Haus to get the tins.

Hopefully it will be late enough in the afternoon that it’s inhabitants will have all left for the day. He can just grab the tins and get out of there without a fuss. He’ll never have to face Society Row and the hell Haus again. Just after noon he finally caves, pulling on his jacket and shoes.

He stops by a campus café and grabs a sandwich. He sits at a table out front and eats as slowly as he can, trying to put off his fool’s errand for a little while longer. He inevitably finishes his food and starts to make the journey to Society Row.

Somehow, it looks different in the daylight. It’s not that it’s less intimidating – the large houses and pristine yards exude wealth and power and everything that Eric is not. Maybe it’s because he’s already faced the place once that gives Eric the courage to go straight to the front door of the Haus without stopping to gather his wits.

He knocks, with his hand this time, and Baseball Cap opens the door. He hears a voice he doesn’t recognize yell, “Get rid of ‘em. We don’t do business on weekends.” Eric thinks that he never wants to learn what business they could possibly mean.

“It’s cool Shits. It’s just the pie dude for the pans,” Baseball Cap replies. Eric once again finds himself being waved into the kitchen of the Haus. Eric follows with a bit a trepidation in his step. He thought he would just be able to do the hand off at the door. Easy and simple, no need for him to enter foreign territory again.

He doesn’t know when he started talking about the fate of a bunch of pie tins in hostage situation terms, but he still can’t help but feel uncomfortable sitting in the Haus kitchen.

“You can just chill here for a minute,” Baseball Cap says, “Shits had to go to the attic to grab the pans from Ransom and Holster.” Eric has often felt that Samwell was a whole other world, but sitting in the kitchen of the Haus and hearing the supposed most powerful people in the world be referred to has Shits, Ransom, and Holster, he couldn’t help but feel like he’s left the known universe entirely.

The mustachioed man from last night comes into the kitchen brandishing four pie tins. He’s still shirtless, but Eric breathes a sigh of relief to see that he’s wearing pants. He hollers like he’s just completed some impossible mission, instead of collecting stationary pie tins.

“Let me just grab the one in the fridge and you can be on your way,” the man says.

“Umm… sure. Thanks.” Eric’s still not sure what to make of the man. He doesn’t entirely understand how the Haus could be home some of the most powerful people on Earth when one of them is half-naked rifling through the fridge for a pie pan. The man lets out another whoop of joy when he successfully finds it.

He turns to hand Eric the pie tins, “Bruh… that was some amazing pie. We’ll definitely have to order some more.”

He doesn’t know what makes him say it. Maybe it’s the fact that if they order more then he might have to come back to the Haus regularly. Maybe it’s the fact that he still doesn’t understand why the man doesn’t seem to own a shirt. Maybe it’s because he’s finally had enough of these ridiculous Samwell kids. Or maybe… just maybe it’s because Eric instinctually knows a good pie when he tastes it, that forces him to blurt out, “It wasn’t that good.”

The man stops whatever he was going to say and puts the pie tins on the counter, just out of Eric’s easy reach.

Oh god, he was so close to getting out of here and he just had to open his mouth. He could have been on his way never to return again, but instead he decided it was better to insult his boss’ cooking. The man looks at him curiously, “What do you mean. It tasted pretty fucking great to me.”

“Never mind… It was just my opinion. It doesn’t matter. I’ll… um… just take the pans and be on my way.” Eric valiantly tries back track, but the man won’t have any of it.

“Nah man. That’s the most confident I’ve ever heard you. Come on bro, tell me about the pie.” Eric looks at the man surprised. He seems sincere, like he actually wants to hear Eric rant about pecan pie.

Eric feels all the frustration and anger that’s built up over the last few months. Class and then dishwashing and then homework and if he was lucky, sleep all repeating in an endless cycle over and over again. The stupid middle of the night errand that caused him to be sitting in this hell of a Haus, facing someone who’s been spoon fed gold for their entire life, and yet doesn’t seem to know what a good pie should taste like. He feels it build and build in his lithe five foot six frame and then… then he finally lets it all out.

“The crust was dry and overcooked. The filling was a lumpy, gelatinous mess which skimped on the pecans, which, by the way, is absurd because this school is loaded. Any real Southern pecan pie has a proper crisp topping for added texture. It should be creamy and silky, while the nuts provide a crunch and the crust cleanses your palate for the next bite. That was a sorry excuse for a fucking pecan pie.” Eric’s shouting dies down and he feels exhaustion creep into his bones.

The man looks at him in surprise, whatever he had been expecting, it probably hadn’t been that. Eric’s mom always told him that his words could get away from him when he was talking about baking, but somehow he feels better. Like all the tension that he had been holding for the last few months was released in his wrath against that half-assed pecan pie.

“Are you saying that you could bake a better one?” The man asks. He doesn’t look frightened of Eric’s pie rampage, instead he looks intrigued. Eric realizes that yelling at someone who lives in the Haus was probably the worst way to keep a low profile in the history of lying low. Caitlin’s going to kill him… if he ever makes it out of the Haus alive.

At this point, Eric figures that there’s no way to make the situation worse, so he replies with all the baking confidence he can muster, “In. My. Sleep.”

“Then the kitchen’s yours,” the man says gesturing to the kitchen around him. Is he serious? He wants Bitty to bake a pecan pie. He smiles one more time before leaving, “We’ll be expecting pie for dessert.”

“Who in the world does he think he is?” Eric mutters to himself.

“That’s Shitty Knight.” Eric jumps at the voice behind him. Baseball Cap had come into the kitchen when he wasn’t looking. He continues, “Sole heir of Knight Enterprises. They do a little bit of everything: entertainment, hotels, realty, stocks. You name it, Knight Enterprises probably owns it. Shitty also keeps the Haus and SMH running.”

“SMH?” Caitlin had mentioned it last night, but Eric still wasn’t exactly sure what she meant by it. He had been too afraid to ask her.

Baseball Cap smirks, “The Samwell Men’s Host Club. For students that have too much money to spare and too much time on their hands. I’m sure you’ll meet them all if you stick around.” Eric wants to argue that ‘sticking around’ is the last thing that he wants to do, but Baseball Cap continues before he can, “I better leave you to it. If they’re expecting pie, well… there better be pie.”

Eric is left alone in the kitchen. He can’t help but to smile. He’s finally _alone_ in a kitchen and has permission to bake. He may have to bake in the hell Haus for some rich kid elites, but still… a kitchen is a kitchen.

He starts rummaging through the cabinets for ingredients. He finds no less than five cases of beer, a dozen bottles of sriracha, and a bottle of wine that is possibly worth more than he is. After enough digging he finally manages to secure the basic ingredients for a pie crust and the base of the pie. Unfortunately, the one thing he doesn’t find is pecans, which thinking about it makes sense, because what self-respecting frat house turned elite fraternal brotherhood has pecans.

Eric busies himself with making the crust while he tries to think of a solution. There’s not really time for him to run to the store and he thinks that if he leaves the Haus, he won’t have the courage to come back, and if he doesn’t come back then he can just kiss the rest of his life goodbye.

He places the pie in the oven for it’s initial bake without a solution. He’s supposed to add the nuts halfway through baking in order to get the crisp topping he loves. He’s humming to himself while washing the dishes, when he looks through the open door to the living room. Incredibly, he spots a solution among the mess. Dishes forgotten, he runs and grabs the missing ingredient.

He pulls the pie out of the oven an hour later when it looks to be a perfect golden brown. He places it on the countertop and makes sure that all the dishes are back in their respective places. His MooMaw taught him you should always leave a kitchen better than you found it and even the hell Haus’ kitchen deserved some respect (although the oven had certainly seen better days… just how many pot brownies had they baked in that poor thing?).

He hears the Haus door open and sees Shitty enter the kitchen. Eric is relieved to see that he’d actually put on a shirt before leaving to go out in public. “Is it done?”

“Yeah. It’s cooling on the counter.” For some reason Eric feels more comfortable now. Almost like by baking in the kitchen of Haus, he’s made it his. That somehow making _his_ pie recipe in this foreign kitchen is an act of rebellion. He might be in their Haus, but for the last couple of hours this was _his_ kitchen.

“’Swasome bro. I’m going to taste some now.”

Eric nods his head and echoes Shitty’s words from the night before, “Get it while it’s hot.” Shitty grabs a fork from the drawer and dives right into the pie. He doesn’t even cut a slice, choosing instead to just stab the fork into the pan. He raises the fork to his mouth, looks at the bite, and then swallows it whole. He lets out a moan that can only be described as orgasmic.

“Holy shit. Like holy fucking shit.” Shitty turns to look at Eric with wide eyes, “You made this pie in this shoddy ass kitchen. This fucking glorious pecan pie.”

Eric smiles. It’s nice to know that his baking can still affect someone this much. Maybe even more so, considering that Shitty’s probably had desserts made by culinary professionals in non-sriracha filled kitchens. Eric chuckles before admitting, “It’s actually made from pretzels. You guys didn’t have any pecans so I had to improvise.”

“Wait,” a look of confusion crosses his face, “You baked the best fucking pecan pie I’ve ever had without any actual fucking pecans?” Eric thinks that Shitty might even look a bit starstruck (which he tries to tell himself is preposterous because he’s probably met actual real life celebrities).

“One of my cousins has a nut allergy, so my MooMaw makes it with pretzels instead.”

Shitty continues to eat the pie with reckless abandon. Eric’s actually a little worried he’s going to hurt himself. He gets through a quarter of the pie before Eric slowly walks over to him and gently places a hand on his shoulder, “Um... Shitty? You might want to slow down.”

Shitty looks up at him, his mouth full of pie, “Bruh. You have to make more.” Eric takes a step back. The comfortable feeling dissipates and panic settles in its place. This was supposed to be a one-time thing. He was just supposed to get the pie tins and leave, never to return, but instead his stupid mouth and his stupid baking heart had decided that pie, _pie_ was more important.

He hates to admit that it, but this isn’t the first time he’s prioritized pie.

“It was nice that you let me use your kitchen and all, but I really should be grabbing the pie pans and heading home.” Shitty sits hunched over Eric’s faux pecan pie, his face looking like Eric’s stolen all of his Halloween candy or broken a priceless antique vase.

“You can’t do this to me.” Oh god, is he going to cry? “You can’t just leave me once you’ve served the best fucking pie of my entire fucking life.” Eric thinks he’s actually crying. His pie just made the heir of a multi-billion dollar enterprise cry. What has his life turned into?

He does his best to console Shitty, “I’d be happy to give y’all the recipe. It’s really not that good. I lost at the Georgia State Fair to some grandmother whose recipe dated back over a hundred years.” Shitty finally calms down after a few minutes of shoveling more pie down his throat. Eric observes that he’s probably a stress eater. He thinks his prayers might be answered and he’ll finally be free of the hell Haus when Shitty looks up at him with a wicked gleam in his eye.

“You should just bake for us full time. Use the kitchen whenever you want as long as we get to be taste testers for your desserts.” Shitty looks elated at his solution, like he’s just figured out a way to provide a lifetime supply of puppies and rainbows. Eric’s mind on the other hand can only think of one word:

_Shit._

This was not in the plan. He’s supposed to lay low and get through his four years at Samwell with as little pain as possible. Shitty Knight should have never even learned of his existence.

And he certainly should not know him well enough to offer him a position to become the in house baker for well… The Haus.

“I really can’t,” Eric tries to reply delicately. Knowing Shitty’s identity just makes it worse than last night when he thought they were some kind of Samwell mafia. Now Eric knows that these people could ruin his life, at least last night he could just pretend it was some exaggerated fever dream.

“We can pay you. Just make us pies. Lots of pies.” Eric realizes that very few people have probably turned down Shitty Knight, and suspects that even fewer have lived to tell the tale.

“I um… I actually have a work study position I need to maintain if I want to keep my scholarship.” He doesn’t tell him that all he does is wash dishes for hours, but Eric will need to use everything in his arsenal to make it out of this situation in one piece. Shitty looks at him curiously when he mentions the scholarship. Maybe Eric can use Samwell’s unanimous hate for scholarship students to never have step foot in the Haus again.

“What scholarship?” Shitty asks suspiciously.

“Umm…” Eric racks his brain for what the papers said when he first enrolled at Samwell. “I think it was from the… um... Oluransi Endowment for the Furthering of STEM Scholars. I wanted to be a humanities major but… ah, the scholarship was too generous to turn down.” Eric can’t help but feel unease from the the wide grin the overtakes Shitty’s face.

“Well, it’s your lucky fucking day—” Shitty pauses and gives him an inquiring look.

“Umm… Eric. Eric Bittle,” he says slightly awkwardly, frightened by the prospect that with his name, Shitty could probably know every single thing that there was to know about him.

Shitty starts to steer him out of the Haus. Eric barely manages to grab the pie tins off the counter, while Shitty continues on with what he was saying, “Like I said it’s your lucky fucking day Eric Bittle. Just sit back, relax, and let Mr. Shitty take care of things for you.” The door closes behind Eric with a resounding thud. He wonders if this is what it feels like to sell your soul to the Devil.

* * *

Erik doesn’t think much about what Shitty said as he walks back to his dorm. He refuses to think about it.

He’s behind on his homework because he ended up spending the entire day at the Haus baking that stupid pie, so he spends most of Sunday catching up and ignoring Shitty Knight’s ominous promise.

Sunday afternoon he manages to gather enough courage to send Caitlin a text: _i think shitty knight offered me a job._ His phone starts ringing thirty seconds later.

“What the fuck happened Eric Bittle.” She must be seething. Eric hadn’t heard her this angry since she was almost replaced by an heiress who wanted a spot on the volleyball team (the heiress quit a week later because games interfered with fashion week).

“I’m not really sure… I baked him pie?” Eric hears Caitlin sigh (he’s starting to think that sighing might be part of the Samwell condition. He wonders if it only applies to scholarship students).

“Pie. You baked pie for Shitty Knight,” she pauses in disbelief, “You should know by now that your pie is more irresistible than a siren’s song.”

“I didn’t know.” Eric tries to defend, “My family doesn’t think my pies are anything special. MooMaw makes them better than me anyway.”

“Eric. I have literally had to stop the team from fighting over your pre-game good luck pies. Blood has been drawn because of those pies.”

“I thought you were exaggerating!” Although he’s worried about the power of his pies, he also can’t clamp down on the smug satisfaction that bubbles up at knowing that his baking is appreciated.

“I think you’re screwed.” Sometimes Eric really didn’t appreciate Caitlin’s blunt honesty, “Once they have you in their clutches they’ll never let you go.”  

“I have work study. It’s not like I have time for another job on top of that.”

Caitlin gives a dry laugh, “It’s the Haus. Remember Eric: pedigree and wealth over everything else. The Haus beats a dishwashing job any day.”

“We’ll just have to see. If they’re as powerful as everyone says, then I can’t really do anything about it now.”

“Good luck,” Eric can picture her rolling her eyes in exasperation, “You’re certainly going to need it.”

“Thanks Cait.” Eric wishes her a goodnight and then tries to get some sleep. He can’t seem to fall asleep. Tomorrow is Monday, which means he’ll have to face classes again, and then hopefully is job in the kitchens. He’s never wished to wash dishes before, but with the alternative being the Haus’ baking lap dog, it seems like the better option by far.

He turns over. He told Caitlin the truth. Whatever happens tomorrow is out of his hands. There are much, much more powerful people at work.

* * *

Eric wakes up on Monday morning and feels the beginnings of anxiety bubble up. He chooses to ignore it. He can’t obsess over what may or may not happen. He still has grades to maintain for his scholarship anyway. With that thought in mind, he manages to pull himself together enough to muddle through his classes.

He takes notes, answers questions when called upon, and yet he can’t help but feel that he’s not totally there.

He absent-mindedly makes his way to the kitchens, pie pans in tow. He places them on the shelf and makes his way over to the sinks, ready to settle in for another afternoon of dishwashing.

“Bittle!” His boss calls him over and pins Eric with a hard stare before he can even begin.

“Umm… yes sir?” Eric shifts his weight from one foot to the other and looks away from his boss’ eyes.

“You’ve been transferred. Pick up your stuff and go,” Eric thinks that his eyes soften before he continues, “They’re expecting you this afternoon.”

“Who, sir?” Eric already knows the answer, but he can’t help but to hope he’s wrong.

“Your services are required at a house on Society Row. The address is—”

“I already know,” Eric cuts him off. He doesn’t know what to say to his (ex?) boss. _It was a pleasure washing dishes for you? Trust me, I’d rather be here. Why did you have to have me deliver those pies?_ Eric’s train of thought is interrupted by his boss.

“Go, you don’t want to be late.” Eric is halfway out the door when his boss calls out to him, “Remember Bittle, pie can’t fix everything, but it certainly doesn’t hurt.”

Eric doesn’t know what to do with this piece of parting wisdom. Pie is what got him into this whole mess in the first place… well multiple pies. Screw his love of pies. He doesn’t even realize until he’s halfway to the Haus that his body’s on autopilot. The walk has started to become familiar. He wishes it hadn’t.

He pauses on the outskirts of the lawn. The Haus couch is still outside, although he thinks that the upholstery has been cleaned up. The hustle and bustle of people inside is audible from the fence line. He talks a deep breath and walks up to the front door. The sounds are even louder now, laughter and conversation nearly drowning out the sounds of classical music.

He raises his hand to the door and knocks. Almost immediately the door is opened. A man with impeccable hair and a nice suit accented with an out of place periwinkle jacket greets him, “Welcome to the Samwell Host Club. How may—” the man looks at Eric and stops. He turns to the side and calls deeper into the Haus, “Ollie, Wicks. Bitty’s here. Show him the ropes and tonight’s menu.”

Baseball Cap and his friend appear and pull Eric into the kitchen. It’s not until this moment that he realizes that the man that greeted him at the door was none other than Shitty Knight. Shitty Knight, who was unrecognizable with a shirt on and without the excessive expletives.

“Did he just call me Bitty?” Eric asks Baseball Cap (Ollie or Wicks he reminds himself, although he’s still not sure which one is which).

“Johnson’s nickname for you. He gives all of us nicknames. Ollie,” he says pointing to himself and then to his friend, “Wicks.”

“He gives them to the rest of SMH too,” Wicks adds.

“But who is he?” Eric asks, still confused. Ollie and Wicks share a complicated look.

“He’s sort of the enigmatic, eccentric founder of the Host Club. You’ll understand when you meet him,” Ollie says.

“He basically built the host club from the bottom up, including those ridiculous periwinkle jackets. He said, and I quote, ‘you can’t mess with the host club aesthetic,’” Wicks says with an exasperated smile on his face.

“So… they just host people?” Eric is still puzzled about this whole host club business. He knows rich people are weird, but why pay money to just sit and eat with a bunch of random people?

“That’s the gist of it. People give us their time and money, we make them feel special.”

“Although, a good chunk of our return customers are just infatuated with the idea that people with so much power would pay attention to little old them. They get high off the feeling,” Wicks smirks, “Here, we’ll show you.”

Eric is led through the opposite door, through the living room, and down the hallway, where two ornate wood doors sit. He makes a noise as he’s pulled past it.

“That’s the main entrance for guests and hosts only. There’s a side door for food, garbage, and lowly staff like us.”

Ollie carefully opens the staff door, and holds it open for Wicks and him. He’s greeted by the site of a thick maroon curtain blocking his view. He looks around and sees serving carts along with extra plates and dishes tucked away. There also seems to be a small food preparation area with limited counter space and a small sink. Ollie and Wicks are standing by the curtain and gesture him over.

“We present to you the Samwell Men’s Host Club,” they whisper together, flourishing their hands and a sly smile adorning both their faces. They part the curtain just a few inches so that Eric can peer into the room.

Eric isn’t sure what he was expecting, but he’s pretty sure that he’s just entered an alternate universe. There’s an elegant ballroom that for all he knows is also a copy of Versailles. Couches are spread throughout the room, with tables laden with elegant china. A few solitary tables with candles sit around the edges of the room. They have elaborate table settings that have only ever been seen in romance movies set in Paris, and evidently the Samwell Men’s Host Club.

People lounge in groups and at the center of each… at the center of each sits a man with a distinctive periwinkle jacket. It’s like people are drawn to them like a moth is fatally attracted towards light. Like they hope a little of whatever the SMH possess will rub off on them. Bitty hates to admit it, but they’re… they’re otherworldly.

Eric hears a phone buzz and a hand on his shoulder forcing him to look away from the scene. Ollie gestures to Wicks and whispers, “Johnson says we have to do the introductions.”

“He’s going to eventually meet them all anyway,” Wicks complains. Another phone buzz. Wicks sounds resigned when he asks, “What did Johnson say this time?”

“The same as always, ‘You can’t mess with the host club aesthetic.’” They both turn to Eric and open the curtain again, falling in line on both sides of him.

“You’ve already met Shitty. During Host Club hours he’s significantly more clothed and significantly less foul-mouthed. He’s the rebellious type. Long hair, daddy issues, and enough status to do pretty much whatever he wants.” Shitty looks like he’s telling a story complete with wide-sweeping hand gestures. His audience sits enraptured.

“Then there’s Lardo, although you might have heard of her real name, Larissa Duan.” Ollie points to a girl with short hair standing in front of an easel, seemingly putting on a some type of demonstration. “She’s the artsy type, learned it all from her mom. She had an exhibit in the Louvre last summer. She thinks that art says more than any words ever could.” Ollie and Wicks seamlessly transition between each other, as if they’ve had to give this speech hundreds of times.

“She hangs out a lot with Chris Chow, aka Chowder.” Eric sees a young man, still with braces on and clutching a stuffed shark, bouncing in between the tables while a trail of admirers follow him. Wicks shrugs, “He’s the adorable type. Don’t let it fool you, he’s almost six feet tall and Lardo and him are crazy protective of each other.” Although Chowder towers over Eric’s small frame, he can’t imagine how he’d ever be threatening. Wicks shrugs, “he also likes sharks… a lot.”

“Justin Oluransi and Adam Birkholtz, aka Ransom and Holster, they’re ‘brosexuals,’ they do the whole ‘are they bros or are they more thing?’ You’re either in love with one of them, both of them, or in love with their love.” The boys in question are staring into each others’ eyes. They’re talking very quietly and very close to each other, as if they weren’t being watched by an audience who was sighing and weeping at their every movement.

“Finally, there’s the former child actor and son of _the_ powerhouse couple of the entertainment industry, Jack Zimmermann. Some like his fallen prince routine, while others see him as their teenage crush with a better ass. One thing’s for sure, he’s the most popular host by far.” So popular in fact, that Eric can barely make out the periwinkle jacket in the sea of people surrounding him. He can see the back of his head and does take a moment to check out said ass. Jack Zimmermann turns around and for a brief second Eric catches his blue eyes. Eric thinks that he would think Jack Zimmermann would be quite handsome… you know if he wasn’t a rich kid elite fed with a silver spoon.

“Come on. We bring caterers in for most of the food, but I’m pretty sure Shitty wants a full spread of fresh desserts,” Ollie says while Eric pulls away from the curtain.

He’s led back to the kitchen and away from… well whatever reality the Samwell Men’s Host Club resides in. Ollie and Wicks show him where all the ingredients are and the pie selection that’s expected of him. It’s easy work and should be a completely mindless task to Eric.

Humming to himself and pulling on stupid periwinkle apron, he can’t quite shake the image of Jack Zimmermann’s eyes from the back of his mind.

* * *

It’s weird how quickly working at the Host Club becomes normal. Eric thinks that he should be uncomfortable: the extravagance, the Haus, and his classmates in their dumb periwinkle jackets. But… but when he’s in the kitchen, baking whatever ridiculous menu Shitty came up with, he feels… he feels more at home than he’s ever been at Samwell.

He doesn’t even have to see the Host Club very often. They leave him alone to bake in the kitchen, and if he doesn’t acknowledge them then Eric can pretend this is just a “normal” baking gig. Sometimes, he even video calls Caitlin or his family while baking to make it feel like he’s a little less alone.

Weeks pass, midterms are taken, and the walk up Society Row to the Haus happens over and over again. All through it all, a small, Southern boy creates delectable treats, sweet delights, and many, many pies in his small pocket of comfort in what’s always felt like a foreign land.

Eric could have probably been content with the rest of his college life if things had stayed the same.

Unfortunately, Johnson had other plans for him.

* * *

It all starts when a confused looking boy comes into the kitchen one afternoon when Eric is in the midst of baking a dozen key lime pies for the Haus’ Tropical Night. Eric thinks it’s a little absurd to have a “tropical night” in February in Massachusetts while in the middle of a cold spell, but who is he to make the rules?

The boy is tall and dressed… well Eric thinks he looks like a hipster, a rich hipster. He must be looking for the Host Club.

“Sorry Hun, it’s staff only back here,” Eric says gently, “the Hosts are through the big ornate doors in the hallway.”

“Oh, umm…” The boy looks behind him to the hallway that will lead him to the Host Club and then looks back at Eric, apprehension on his face.

“Something on your mind?” Eric asks, adding a bit of his Southern drawl to his words.

“I just needed… a…” The boy fidgets and rolls up his sleeves. Eric can see the edge of a dark tattoo on one of his arms. He continues to shift nervously in the kitchen.

“Why don’t you sit down Hun,” Eric says, while pulling one of the chairs out from the island, “this place can be a little overwhelming.” The boy shuffles over to the chair and sits, hunching over as if to make himself more unobtrusive.

“Thanks.”

“You know what?” Eric says, a smile blooming on his face, “You look like you could use some pie. I have some leftover from yesterday. It’s made from an old family recipe. My Moomaw’s Moomaw if you can believe it…” Eric continues to fill the silent kitchen with conversation. He sees the boy growing more relaxed, eventually reaching in his pocket to look at his phone.

Eric goes back to making key lime pies after he sees that his guest has settled in. He’s always believed in an open kitchen policy. He gets so absorbed in the pie-making that he doesn’t even see the boy slip out early in the night.

It’s not until he turns to talk to him to see if he’s finished with his pie that he notices that the boy has left. All that’s left of him is an empty plate and a page torn out of a expensive moleskin journal with fancy cursive writing that reads, _thanks for the pie. it was chill._

Eric tucks the note into his apron pocket, and then yells for Ollie and Wicks to start taking the pies to the artificial beach set up in the banquet room.

* * *

The next day Eric is surprised to see Johnson and Shitty waiting for him in the Haus kitchen when he arrives. Usually, Ollie and Wicks just leave the night’s menu taped to the fridge.

Eric can’t help but to be nervous in the face of his bosses (could he even consider them bosses… was working in the Haus even classified as a proper job?)

“We heard that you had a run-in with one of the guests yesterday,” Shitty begins, “You know talking to guests is off limits to staff.”

“I know. He just came in here and looked so…” Wait, Eric thinks, why was he defending himself? If he broke the rules, then they could fire him. If they fired him then he could get his old dishwashing job back.

“Normally, we wouldn’t let staff get away with a breach of contract like this,” Shitty says, although Eric doesn’t remember signing a contract at all, “but Johnson came up with a better idea.”

“The guest in question is a regular here and was very impressed with your natural hosting skills,” Johnson smiles and Eric feels his stomach drop, “instead of firing you, we’ve decided you can fill your work study position by becoming an official host.”

“What?” Eric must not have heard him correctly. Nope. He refuses to believe that any of this is real. He’s definitely entered a parallel universe.

“Well, my dear Bitty, you’ve been destined to join the Host Club since the very beginning. If you didn’t, how would the plot ever progress?” Eric can only stare at Johnson in shock, “Shitty, give Bitty all the details about moving in. He can take my room; I think that would be an apt parallel to canon.” With that, Johnson brushes past Eric and out the front door, closing it with a note of finality.

“Excuse me? Move… move in?” Eric thinks that this must be some elaborate plot. His punishment for talking to a guest in the kitchen. They can’t be serious. This can’t be happening.

“Don’t you fucking know? All the Hosts live in the Haus,” Shitty purses his lips in thought, “We’ll have to get you in right the fucking way. How about tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow?” Eric stammers.

“Fucking great. I’ll even let you have the rest of the day off to get all your stuff packed.” With that, Shitty leaves Eric alone in the kitchen. He manages to walks out of the Haus in a sort of daze. After walking out of the front gate, he digs his phone out of his pocket and slowly dials a familiar number.

“Cait. You’re going to kill me.”

* * *

The next afternoon he finds himself in his dorm room, boxes mostly packed and ready to be moved to the Haus.

“I can’t believe that you got yourself into this mess,” Caitlin says while helping him pack the last of his belongings.

“I promise you, it really wasn’t my intention,” Eric replies, making sure he knows what boxes were fragile.

“You. A Samwell University scholarship student, moving into the Haus. Has a Host.” Caitlin tapes up the last box and then looks at him suspiciously, “Are you sure you don’t drug your pies?”

“I wish the explanation was that simple. Evidently, Johnson insisted I take his place because some intern position opened up at an up and coming webcomic and I’m only one that fits the ‘host club aesthetic.’”

“Weird.”

“Yeah, he is.” A knock interrupts their conversation. Eric opens the door to find Ollie, Wicks… and Chowder?

“Hi, ya Bitty! Ollie and Wicks said that they were coming over to help you move and I asked if I could tag along. I’m so excited to be living with you!” Chowder is nearly vibrating in excitement.

“I think that’s my cue to leave,” Caitlin says, making her way to the door, “I’ll see you around...  Bitty.” Eric can’t tell if the tone in her voice is mocking his new nickname or coming from a place of insecurity that he won’t see her as much anymore if he’s living in the Haus.

“Wait! Who are you?” Chowder nearly bumps into her as he rushes forward to greet her, “I’m Chris, but you can call me Chowder.” A grimace crosses Caitlin’s face, before settling into a strained smile.

“I’m Caitlin.”

“It’s nice to meet you Caitlin. I really like your shirt. It’s the same color as my shark plushie!” Caitlin looks down at her ratty teal t-shirt, a remnant of her high school volleyball team and Eric can see the moment that Caitlin’s strained smile turns into a real one, giving way under Chowder’s unending enthusiasm. Has Chowder asks her more questions, Caitlin launches into a story about her high school boys’ volleyball team, and soon they’re both laughing.

Eric turns away and guides Ollie and Wicks to what boxes to start with. Together they load the car with the first load of stuff to be moved. Several trips later, Eric finds that Caitlin and Chowder are still talking.

“You’ll have to let me come over sometime,” Caitlin says and Eric’s convinced that Chowder must be some kind of miracle worker if Caitlin’s willing to visit the Haus.

“Of course! You could come right now. You’ll love my shark collection!”

“I can’t. If I don’t leave soon, then I’m going to be late to practice,” Caitlin says. She grabs her things and says goodbye to the two of them before hurrying out of his (ex?) dorm.

Chowder turns to him after she leaves, a wistful smile on his face, “Your friend is really pretty.” Eric just laughs and pats him on the shoulder.

* * *

 

It only takes Eric a few hours to unpack all of his boxes. He hangs the last few of his pictures by his bed.

He settles down at his desk chair and takes in his new temporary home. It’s… it’s not bad, bigger than his old dorm room and he doesn’t have to deal with his roommate anymore. He finally has the wall space to put up all of his Beyoncé posters.

He hears a noise and looks up. Straight out the door, across the hall, and into the room across from his, Jack Zimmermann stares back.

“You’re not Johnson,” Jack says bluntly.

“Um… no, he moved out yesterday… or early this morning. I’m not really sure. He kind of just disappeared,” Eric chews his lip, “I’m Eric, er… well I guess Bitty. The new host.”

“That’s unusual.” A look of confusion crosses Jack’s face. He shakes his head and then gets up and closes the door to his room. Eric really doesn’t know what to make of him.

As he’s falling asleep that night he can’t help but to think of how he got here. The ridiculous chain of events that led him to owning his very own stupid, periwinkle jacket.

Eric doesn’t know what the future holds. He can’t imagine that this Host Club thing will be easy and his new coworkers are well… eccentric to say the least. Dealing with the whims of his classmates on a daily basis seems like it’s going to be a pain, not to mention he’s still in charge of baking. Joining the Host Club could be the worst thing that’s ever happened to him.

On the other hand, Eric knows that he’s been the happiest at Samwell while in the Haus kitchen, that Chowder has somehow charmed Caitlin, and that there’s an untouchable but handsome boy living next door.

Tomorrow’s a new day, who knows what else life (or, as Eric suspects, Johnson) has in store for him. He knows it won’t be easy, nothing at Samwell ever is, especially for people like him. But tomorrow…  

Tomorrow is a new day. His first day of many as:

Bitty, of the Samwell Men’s Host Club.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! 
> 
> Seriously, if you haven't checked out the [accompanying art](http://bittleobsessed.tumblr.com/post/152800619148/my-accompanying-artwork-for-3-society-row-by-the) by the absolutely wonderful [bittleobsessed](http://bittleobsessed.tumblr.com/), go do it now!
> 
> You can in fact, make pecan pie with pretzels. (The More You Know!)
> 
> (And yes, I now have a headcanon that Oikawa and Caitlin are volleyball bros).
> 
> Feel free to talk to me on [tumblr](http://soveryaverageme.tumblr.com) about this AU, or about fandom in general.


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